


Follow You Home

by savorvrymoment



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~ Sam, however, has no earthly body buried in the ground. He has no coffin to crawl out of, no dirt to dig through. Everything he had went down into the cage, and when he wakes up suddenly out of death, he’s lying in the middle of the graveyard, staring up at the sunny sky...  He’ll go to Dean once he’s sure he’s not bringing anything dangerous along with him. ~  Old one-shot moved from livejournal.  Written for supernatural fic exchange in 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow You Home

Sam sometimes wondered what it was like for Dean when he was pulled from the pit. How it felt to wake up in a coffin, claw his way up to the top, dirty and drained and alone. Dean had never told him any of the specifics about that day, but Sam sometimes imagined it, hurt for him.  
  
Sam, however, has no earthly body buried in the ground. He has no coffin to crawl out of, no dirt to dig through. Everything he had went down into the cage, and when he wakes up suddenly out of death, he’s lying in the middle of the graveyard, staring up at the sunny sky.  
  
He’s butt-ass naked as the day he was born, pieces of dirt and grass stuck to his sweaty body as if he’d crash-landed and rolled across the ground. He hurts all over, feels stiff and sick, isn’t all that sure he can move. But after lying on the ground for quite some time and realizing that this is real, that he’s burning hot and dying for a drink of water, he rolls to the side and leverages himself up to his hands and knees with a quiet grunt.  
  
He tries to come up with a plan. He’s naked, can’t exactly just walk into town like this, and even if he could, he’s not sure he’s physically able to. He coughs, dry and hacking, and tries to get to his feet. Fails miserably.  
  
He wants to cry, but can’t because he’s too happy to be alive and out of the cage. He can’t remember anything about being in the cage, but somehow knows he was conscious there. Knows he doesn’t want to remember.  
  
He manages to scramble up to his feet, shaking and wobbly, and stumbles over to lay a hand on the nearest headstone to keep his balance only to sink back to his knees then, resting his head against the stone and closing his eyes for a moment. And it’s while his eyes are closed that he feels the fiery burst of light all around him, feels like he’s burning alive, and hears the unearthly shrieking of epic proportions. He clenches his eyes shut tighter, curls in on himself in terror, suddenly sure that he’s being sent back down below.  
  
But then, as abruptly it all had begun, it’s all over. It’s quiet, the air cool against his skin, and when he opens his eyes, he finds himself looking at a pile of neatly stacked clothes sitting next to him on the ground.  
  
Sam blinks, reaching out tentatively to pick up the t-shirt folded on top. He recognizes it as one of his own from when he was still alive, as are the jeans and boxer-briefs, socks and boots. He rubs the soft fabric between his fingers for a moment, relishing in something from his life, his _life_ , before looking around, expecting to see someone. Something. Castiel, maybe, mostly.  
  
No one is there, but there’s an old rundown Honda parked a few yards away. Sam swallows, looks around himself one last time just in case he’s missed anything, then very slowly starts getting dressed.  
  
It’s a hassle just getting his clothes on, and then getting to the car is exhausting. He manages it, though, finds the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition. He breathes out in relief, in alarm, looking around himself again before sliding into the driver’s seat.  
  
A manila envelope is sitting in the passenger’s seat. Inside, Sam finds a driver’s license, birth certificate, social security card, credit card—all under a fake name, of course, but all there—as well as several twenties and several hundred dollar bills. Sam takes another deep breath, then spots the bottles of water sitting on the floorboard.  
  
He drinks until he’s sure he’s going to be sick, but somehow manages to keep it all down.  
  
Then, he starts the car, and leaves the Godforsaken cemetery far, far behind him.  
  
~*~  
  
He stops at the first motel he finds, puts down money for two nights, and locks himself in his room.  
  
The first thing he does is head for the bathroom to take a piss—the water from before seems to have done nothing but go straight through him, and now he’s dying of thirst again. He contemplates going back out, trying to pick up some supplies—soap, shampoo, razor, toothbrush, more clothes, more _water_ —but he aches still, bones heavy with exhaustion, and he decides that he’ll go later. He settles for drinking a plastic cup of water from the tap, then piles into the shower to wash the dirt and sweat from the graveyard away.  
  
He finds the mark as he’s washing himself, wonders briefly how he hadn’t noticed it in the graveyard but then doesn’t question it further. It’s a handprint on his ribcage, an angelic touch, and it makes Sam think briefly of Castiel. Except this handprint spans all the way across his side, from his armpit to his waist, huge and ethereal.  
  
He washes the mark carefully; it burns like a blister.  
  
A flame flashes out in the motel room while Sam’s in the shower, bright and hot and sudden just like it had been in the graveyard, and Sam ends up plastering himself against the tiles in the shower, quickly shutting the water off and listening for any other noises. But everything is silent and still, so he grabs a towel and steps out of the shower.  
  
“Hello?” he calls, wishing he was armed, or at least dressed. He peers out of the bathroom, into the motel room, and finds it empty. “Hello, is anyone there?” he calls again, just to be sure.  
  
And then his eyes land on the duffle bag on the floor by the door. It’s his duffle bag from before, Sam recognizes it all the way from across the room, and he strides over to it quickly, still wary but hopeful.  
  
Inside are several more changes of clothes, soap and shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, razors and shaving cream… All of the things he used to carry and use on the road. He grabs what he needs and starts back to the bathroom, but is stopped short by the knife sitting on top of the television.  
  
It looks almost identical to Ruby’s knife—for a moment, Sam thinks it is Ruby’s knife—but when he picks it up to get a better look at it, he realizes it isn’t. The blade is a different color, an almost icy metallic, and the symbols carved out on it are different.  
  
Different, and definitely Enochian.  
  
Sam gingerly places the knife back on the television, and is suddenly aware that there is an angel following him. Or at least, an angel has followed him from the cage all the way to the motel, and ensured his safekeeping along the way.  
  
He feels like he should say something, but the room is empty, and he doesn’t know who he’s talking to anyway. He glances around one last time in case he’s missed anything, but other than his bag and the knife, the room is how it was when he first stepped into it.  
  
He shivers, the distinct feeling that he’s being watched crawling down his spine, and heads back into the bathroom.  
  
~*~  
  
He stays at the motel for several days, eventually going back up to the front desk and putting money down for a few more nights. He’s tired, wrung dry and ragged, and he has nowhere to be anyway. Or at least, nowhere pressing. He’ll go to Dean once he’s sure he’s not bringing anything dangerous along with him.  
  
When he gets back to his room from the lobby, he finds a few more hundreds laid out on his bed, as well as a cellphone. He pockets the cash with a quick glance skyward, and then picks up the cellphone, flips it open curiously.  
  
There are several numbers programmed in, numbers than make his hands shake and clutch the phone too tight. Bobby Singer. Castiel. _Dean Winchester._  
  
He fumbles with the phone, about the call Dean, notices another number listed. No name. He wonders momentarily if it’s the angel who’s been following him. Decides it probably is. He contemplates calling the number, then chickens out, ends up dialing Dean instead.  
  
A woman answers with a soft, “Hello?” And Sam’s heart starts beating in double-time.  
  
“Hi,” he says quietly. “Uhm, is Dean there?”  
  
“Can I ask who this is?” she replies, and Sam’s throat seizes up.  
  
“Uhm,” he says, floundering for a response, because he knows his brother. And if Lisa goes to hand him the phone and tells him it’s Sam, Dean will just fling the phone across the room. “It’s just an old friend. Wanted to see how he was doing,” he finally spits out  
  
Lisa seems to hesitate, but then eventually says, “Yeah, he’s here. Let me get him for you.”  
  
Sam waits until Dean answers with a gruff, “Who’s this?” The man sounds curt, pissed-off, and it brings Sam up short.  
  
“Uh,” Sam says, and then just says, “Dean?”  
  
And he can feel Dean still on the other line. He spits out again, “Who _is_ this?”  
  
“Dean, it’s me,” he tries quietly. “It’s Sam.”  
  
Dean doesn’t answer for what feels like forever. And when he finally speaks, it’s a fierce, “Don’t…! I don’t know what you are, but if you come near me, I swear to God…” And then the call is cut off.  
  
“Shit,” Sam says vaguely, fumbling with the phone to call back. It rings on incessantly, and eventually hits voicemail. Lisa’s voice, the home of Lisa, Dean, and Ben, no last names. It’s all very fitting. Sam doesn’t bother leaving a message.  
  
Afterwards, he curls up in the bathroom and cries for twenty minutes. Then cries for another ten just because he’s actually broken down, and it’s all finally hit him.  
  
~*~  
  
The nightmares start the next night.  
  
Flashes of the cage come back in his dreams. Flashes of being burned alive, torn limb from limb, being mindfucked and mouthfucked and assfucked. Flashes of watching it all happen to Adam, too. Flashes of Lucifer yelling, screaming, such fury and hatred directed at all of them. Flashes of Michael, mostly just white hot burning torture to Sam and the destruction of the plan.  
  
He always wakes up in a cold sweat, shaking, stomach churning, and he will inevitably run for the bathroom. Puke his guts out. Splash cold water on his face and remind himself that it’s all okay, that it’s over now, that it’s going to be okay.  
  
The nights have become routine. Usually about three hours of sleep at best, and he never wakes rested. By night number five he’s running on fried nerves and stale caffeine.  
  
He jumps up that night from his scheduled nightmare, stumbling to the toilet, but then just ends up on his knees, leaning his head against the porcelain, his stomach already empty. He doesn’t know whether to scream, cry, or pass out—so he just closes his eyes.  
  
The angel chooses then to show. Sam can hear the flutter of wings in the quiet, and can’t help the way his spine stiffens on impulse. He jerks back from the toilet, looking around, but can’t see anything. The room is still dark, the only light coming from the alarm clock set by the bedside table.  
  
“I know you’re out there,” Sam croaks, his voice hoarse from sleep and lack of use. “What do you want?”  
  
There’s no answer, but Sam can hear shuffling out in the room. He gets up from the floor, wishing he had that knife on him just in case, and chances a glance out into the motel room.  
  
Sam can see him standing by the bed, his silhouette just barely visible. Sam flips the light on in the bathroom so he can get a better look, and the light ends up catching the golden hue in the angel’s eye. Sam’s struck speechless for a moment.  
  
“Gabriel?”  
  
And sure enough, the archangel saunters forward a bit, choosing to lean against the bathroom doorframe. Sam can see him fully now in the bathroom light—same vessel, same jacket and jeans, but somehow haggard and beaten down. Gabriel gives him a cheerless little smile, and says, “Hey there, kiddo.”  
  
“You said you were dead,” Sam says, stunned. Gabriel just rolls his eyes.  
  
“ _’Hey there, Gabe, how are you doing? Good to see you’_ ,” Gabriel parrots in a voice that sounds startlingly like Sam. Sam frowns, but Gabriel just waves him off, says, “Yeah, I was dead. But I’ve got friends in low places, what can I say?”  
  
And it all suddenly clicks. “Did you…?” Sam asks, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it up, revealing the large handprint there. He watches Gabriel’s eyes flick down to it, a strange look there in his eyes, before his gaze goes back to Sam’s face.  
  
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Gabriel says. “I was trying to be discrete, but it got kind of crazy on the way out. I was holding on for dear life. You’re lucky I didn’t incinerate you! Haha…”  
  
Sam’s not sure whether he should laugh or not. He smiles awkwardly.  
  
“You should get some sleep,” Gabriel finally decides, clapping his hands together, and Sam shakes his head.  
  
“I really don’t want to,” he counters.  
  
“I’ll ward your dreams,” Gabriel says, already ushering Sam back out into the bedroom. “You’ll dream of sunshine and rainbows.”  
  
“What?” Sam says, practically stumbling over his own two feet in exhaustion.  
  
“Sunshine and rainbows,” Gabriel repeats. “Promise.”  
  
~*~  
  
Sam’s not sure what he expects. He wakes up the next morning alone, the only sign that it hadn’t all been one strange and vivid dream: the candy wrappers littering the other side of the bed. For such a powerful and intelligent creature, Sam sort of thinks the archangel is horrible about covering up his tracks. Looking back, it’s hard to believe he was ever trying that hard to hide from them.  
  
But Sam tries not to dwell on it. He tries not to dwell on much of anything—not hell, not Dean, not life—just stays in the moment, wherever that may be. That particular motel. That particular stretch of road. It all blurs together eventually. And then Dean calls.  
  
“Look, I don’t know who you are…!” Dean opens with, his tone this desperate snarl that tells so much.  
  
“Dean, it’s me,” Sam begs. He’d been propped up in bed at the motel, watching television and eating a TV dinner, but now he’s sitting up straight, the food tossed away and forgotten about. “Dean…”  
  
“Croccata, ghoul, I dunno,” Dean’s saying, talking over Sam. “I don’t know. But you know my fucking phone number, and if you come to this house? I’ll empty a fucking clip in your head, do you understand?”  
  
“Dean, no, I’m not! I swear…” Sam starts, but then sure hands are taking the cell away from him, and Sam jerks around to find Gabriel there, phone now in hand, snapped closed.  
  
“No, no, we don’t need to be doing that,” Gabriel says. Then, with a roll of his eyes, “Geeze, I leave you alone for five minutes, and you start terrorizing each other!”  
  
“You hung up!” Sam says, just this side of hysterical. Then, because he feels the need to point this out, “And you haven’t been here for a week!”  
  
Gabriel’s smirk seems almost fake. “Aww, you’ve missed me, how sweet,” he says, and tosses the phone back on the bed to Sam. Then, when Sam grabs for it, “No, no, no. Try it, and I’ll break the phone.”  
  
Sam glares at him, and none of this is Gabriel’s fault. Hell, Gabriel’s saved him. But he suddenly hates Gabriel, hates him so much—everything he’s done to him, to Dean—and now he comes in all holy roller, save the day, make it all better. No. Fuck no.  
  
Sam grabs the phone and throws it at Gabriel’s face before he has time to really think about things, follows it up with a yelled, “Fuck you, asshole!”  
  
The phone hits Gabriel in the nose, but it’s all very unfulfilling considering the archangel doesn’t even blink at the whole spectacle. Sam’s left with a burnt-out temper tantrum, embarrassed and exhausted and lonely, and he can feel tears welling up, tears that haven’t been spilled since that night in the bathroom, since the last time he talked to Dean. He covers his face with his hand and tries to pretend like he isn’t on the verge of falling apart.  
  
He expects something from Gabriel, some sly remark, a “Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.” What he gets, though, is a soft sigh, and the bed dipping down at the bottom by his feet. A hand lands to rest on his shin, squeezing gently, and Gabriel says, “Don’t worry, kiddo. Just take it day at a time.”  
  
Sam doesn’t answer, can’t answer. If he opens his mouth, a dry sob is going to leak out, so he stays quiet. Just pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
“The worst is over,” Gabriel says. “You know? The worst is over.”  
  
Sam nods in reply, because he knows. Deep down, he knows.  
  
Gabriel stays quiet for a while, the warm weight of his hand the only indication that he’s even still there. But then he finally speaks up, “You did good. I didn’t think you guys’d be able to pull it off, but you proved me wrong.” A pause, and a pat on his leg. “You proved a lot of people wrong.”  
  
Sam smiles a little. It’s a foreign feeling on his face.  
  
“I’ll let you be, then,” Gabriel says eventually, pulling his hand away, and Sam’s lunging for him before he’s even aware of it. He catches Gabriel by the wrist, and the archangel blinks back at him, looking a little surprised.  
  
Sam’s suddenly struck by just how bad Gabriel really looks. The angel looks older somehow, even though he can’t have aged, right? And he looks tired and pale, almost sick. Sam rubs at an eye with his free hand.  
  
“Or, I can stay for a while,” Gabriel puts in.  
  
“Thank you,” Sam manages, letting go of Gabriel’s wrist and watching as the archangel wanders around the side of the bed to settle onto the other side.  
  
Gabriel just shrugs at him, grabbing up the remote from where it’s fallen by Sam’s side. “So, what’s on tv?” he asks, and then before Sam can even answer him, “I feel like ice cream, you feel like ice cream?”  
  
And Sam can’t help but smile.  
  
~*~  
  
When Sam wakes up the next morning, he’s once again alone. He digs his fingernails into the bedsheets, this feeling of angry loneliness starting to creep up into his chest, but then there’s a flutter of wings, and Gabriel materializes out of thin air.  
  
Sam watches him, blinking sleepy eyes, as Gabriel grins at him and settles down in the little rickety chair by the mini-fridge. Gabriel tosses something at him, and Sam looks down at where it’s landed on the bed next to his hip, realizes it’s his cellphone.  
  
“What?” Sam asks.  
  
“Borrowed it,” Gabriel says. “Or took it back for a minute, I guess.”  
  
“For what?” Sam says, frowning. Then, suddenly full of hope, “Did you call Dean? What did he say?”  
  
Gabriel quirks his eyebrows at him, says, “No… All in due time, kiddo. Let your brother sleep on it a while, he’ll come around.” A pause, too close to scrutiny for Sam’s liking. “You were only down there three months—he’s still on defensive mode.”  
  
“ _Only_ three months?” Sam asks, exasperated. Gabriel rolls his eyes.  
  
“You know what I mean,” he says. Then, after a beat of silence, “You hungry? I could eat.”  
  
“Who were you talking to?” Sam asks, ignoring him. Gabriel narrows his eyes.  
  
“What is this, twenty questions?” he counters.  
  
“I have a right to know,” Sam says, gut curling defensively. “I have no idea what’s going on. You’re mysteriously back. I’m suddenly out of there. And for no apparent reason. Last I checked, your greatest pastime was to make my life miserable!”  
  
“Last I checked,” Gabriel says, and Sam can suddenly see him, the angel underneath. He doesn’t look sick or pale or old anymore. His eyes are golden, and he looks powerful and enraged. It humbles Sam and pisses him off all at the same time. “Last I checked,” Gabriel says, “I sacrificed my life just to save your sorry ass!”  
  
And Sam doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t have any good comeback.  
  
“And most recently,” Gabriel adds, “I risked my life again to pull you out of hell. So a little less attitude and a lot more gratitude would be nice.”  
  
And Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that either, so he gets up out of bed, locks himself in the bathroom, and takes a shower. He tells himself he’s just taking some time to cool off. In reality, he knows he’s sulking.  
  
~*~  
  
After the shower, as he’s drying off and pulling on a pair of boxers, he realizes that he’s gone from angry to guilty. Because the thing is, he knows Gabriel is right.  
  
He stares in the mirror for a while at the handprint across his ribcage, huge and otherworldly. It doesn’t hurt anymore—it’s healed over, just like Dean’s had. But it doesn’t feel like a normal scar, it feels deeper, warmer than the rest of his skin. He wonders what Gabriel had meant when he said it’d gotten ‘crazy on the way out.’  
  
When he steps out of the bathroom, he starts with, “Gabriel, look, I’m sorry…”  
  
But Gabriel says at the same time, “Look, I know I was an ass…” The archangel trails off as his eyes fall to that handprint on Sam’s ribcage. Utterly transfixed.  
  
Sam looks down, a little self-conscious, and runs his hand over the print. Gabriel shivers.  
  
“I was talking to Cheriour,” Gabriel says. “On the phone. You’re right, you have a right to know.”  
  
Sam swallows, continues to his duffle, pulling his clothes out and starting putting them on. He puts his shirt on first, trying to get Gabriel’s eyes off of that mark. “Who’s that? Another angel?” he asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Gabriel says quietly. “A gatekeeper. He has the keys to the cage.”  
  
That brings Sam up short. “ _What?_ He has the keys to the cage? Had them? All along!”  
  
“Don’t. Don’t be upset,” Gabriel says, looking annoyed and heartbroken all at once. “He’s my fledging. The only one still alive. I wasn’t going to put him in harm’s way.”  
  
“What?” Sam says. Talk about the last thing he expected to come out of the angel’s mouth. “Fledgling?”  
  
“Yeah. It’s the way we work,” he says, shrugging in that way that says he’s clearly trying to downplay things. “He’s my child and brother. And I wasn’t going to ask him to do that. It wouldn’t have changed anything, anyway. You still would have had to sink Lucifer into the cage…”  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything, stays quiet.  
  
“But he opened the cage so I could get you out. And we got Adam out. He’s with Adam, now,” Gabriel finishes. “I’ve just been checking up on them. Adam was in worse physical shape than you were, so…”  
  
“Oh,” Sam says, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly coming together. And what isn’t being said registering entirely.  
  
“I spent a lot of time not doing my job,” Gabriel says. “It’s time I…”  
  
“Thank you,” Sam says, cutting him off. “Just, thank you.”  
  
Gabriel shakes his head, grinning sheepishly at him. “Don’t mention it.”  
  
~*~  
  
Sam dreams that night of hell, of getting caught back in Lucifer’s clutches, and is screaming bloody-murder when something grabs him from behind. It’s a warm something, a peaceful something, something that immediately lets Sam know it’s okay, that he’s safe. Sam falls back into it, squeezing his eyes shut against Lucifer and the cage, and then wakes up.  
  
Gabriel is curled behind him, around him, a hand pressed over his rapidly beating heart. Sam pants, trying to catch his breath, and he leans back into Gabriel just like he’d done in the dream.  
  
“So fucking sorry,” Gabriel mumbles, his hand fisting in Sam’s t-shirt. “I left for just a few minutes. Adam was sick—Cheri needed some help. I didn’t think it’d make a difference…”  
  
“S’okay,” Sam says into the dark. Gabriel is so warm, it’s impossible. “If they need you, go.”  
  
“He’s fine now,” Gabriel says, breath hot against the back of Sam’s neck.  
  
“Good,” Sam says. Then, “He’s my brother, you know. Adam is. Or half-brother, at least…”  
  
Gabriel chuckles, and Sam feels him move his hand, run it up under his t-shirt to rest it over that handprint. His breath leaves him for a minute, and he thinks about Dean and Cas, that connection.  
  
“Why’d you do it?” Sam asks eventually.  
  
“What?” Gabriel counters.  
  
“Come after me. Pull me out of hell,” he says. Then, when Gabriel doesn’t answer, “Is that why He brought you back, to pull me out?”  
  
“No, Kali brought me back. Blood magic,” Gabriel says quietly. Sam breathes out in the silence, and Gabriel continues, “I brought you back on my own free will.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Gabriel sighs. “Why? Because heaven had deserted you boys down there, and you deserved to be free.” A pause, and what Sam could easily mistake as a brush of lips across the back of his neck. “I cast judgment, it’s my nature. People always assume that’s just negative judgment. It’s not.”  
  
“So, that’s it?” Sam asks. “You decided it needed to happen, so you did it?”  
  
“You seem like you’re having a hard time keeping up,” Gabriel quips, but his fingers dig into the print on Sam’s ribcage. Sam catches his breath, closes his eyes, feels electricity slide through him.  
  
Gabriel’s right there when Sam turns over to face him, his breath warm against Sam’s cheek as Sam leans his forehead against the archangel’s temple. Sam can feel Gabriel’s hand settle on his hip, his hand inordinately small compared to what Sam knows he is, what he’s capable of, to the mark he leaves behind.  
  
“I can back off,” Gabriel murmurs. “This thing—what you’re feeling—it’s because you’re my charge. It’s just… The way things are.”  
  
“Don’t leave,” Sam blurts, feels Gabriel’s grip tighten on his hip. Then, “You’ve changed.”  
  
“I died,” Gabriel counters.  
  
Sam kisses him, soft and hesitant at first, but then Gabriel grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him forward, makes the kiss deep and dirty. It feels good, right, and the distraction is perfect.  
  
Gabriel pushes him over onto his back, climbing on top of him and settling astride his hips. That dirty smirk spread all over his face… Sam grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him down, mashing their lips together, biting at Gabriel mouth. Gabriel grinds his hips down against Sam’s stomach, denim rough against his t-shirt, and so Sam yanks at Gabriel’s shirt, popping open the buttons. A silent way of saying, ‘Undress. Now.’  
  
Gabriel pulls away from his lips, snaps, and their clothes end up in a pile by the side of the bed. Sam laughs for the first time in weeks.  
  
“I was waiting forever for you to get a little one-on-one action,” Gabriel says, leaning back and looking down at him. Sam blinks back, watches Gabriel study him, groans quietly when the angel slides his hands up his chest, then down his stomach.  
  
“What?” Sam asks. “You lost me…”  
  
“You know, spank the monkey, polish the rocket, whatever,” Gabriel says, wiggling his ass around on Sam’s groin. “I was waiting for a peepshow. You never delivered.”  
  
“Oh, God. You’re a pervert,” Sam says. Then, “Seriously? It’s been the last thing on my mind.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured,” he answers. Then, slinking down between Sam’s thighs, “Let me make you feel good.”  
  
Sam groans, closes his eyes, and lets himself be taken away.  
  
~*~  
  
Sam wakes up the next morning exhausted, but at the same time sated, relaxed, and most of all, secure in the knowledge that he’s taken care of.  
  
He rolls over to find Gabriel on the other side of the bed, his back to Sam, still apparently undressed. His back looks smooth and sweet, so Sam reaches out to touch him, runs a hand down the angel’s shoulderblade. Gabriel sighs quietly, rolls over to stretch and look at Sam, and says, “Hey, you. Kiddo.”  
  
“Hey,” Sam echoes, and let’s himself be kissed when Gabriel reaches for him.  
  
“What’s up?” Gabriel asks.  
  
“Tired of being holed up in the motel room,” Sam finds himself saying, rubbing sleepily at his eyes.  
  
“Then come on,” Gabriel says, swinging up out of bed. He flicks his wrist, and his clothes fly up off of the floor at him. He catches them in one hand, and Sam can’t help but grin. Gabriel continues, “Take a shower. Get dressed. We’ll see what damage we can do at the bagel place down the street.”  
  
Sam smiles, answers, “Yeah. Sounds like a plan.”  
  
Yeah, taken care of—and maybe, for the moment, that’s not such a bad thing at all.  
  
  
  
  


  
(You cover your eyes  
You cover your mouth  
You cover your ears)  
Still you follow my trail  
(I'll do it all  
I'll do whatever you say)  
God has left me anyway  
\- Susanne Sundfør, The Brothel


End file.
